Page 8 of Beneath the Quiet

As I turn the latch of the garden gate open, the sensors set in, flipping on the outside light, and it almost feels like the cottage beckons, giving me the warm welcome I need.

Sit down, pet, she whispers. Put your feet up and rest your busy mind.

It’s the strangest thing, but one I choose not to dwell on. Not tonight, at least, after the events of the day have left me bruised and exhausted. I pull out the keys to the front door, wipe my boots on the mat, and let myself inside. Quickly, I enter the code to turn off the complicated alarm system and exhale deeply before I shut the door behind me. All I want right now is a hot shower and some food, and if I’m lucky, no one will disturb me even though I’m on call. A police detective is rarely off duty, even out here in the middle of nowhere, but that doesn’t mean I can’t sometimes wish I’d chosen a different career path.

One that allows me to curl up on a plush, welcoming sofa, blankets tucked around my body, in front of a fire with a glass of white wine in my hand if that’s what I want.

Snacks, too. One cannot deny a bookworm her favourite snacks while reading. It’s described in The Good Bookworm Guidebook, and ever since I rediscovered my love of reading five years ago, I’ve followed it.

But I can’t indulge tonight in case I end up having to leave the comforts of my temporary home.

On autopilot, I turn on the lights and put away the baked goods in the pantry. I take the stairs two steps at a time to the second floor, where the master bedroom with the en-suite bathroom is. I pull my hairband out and let out a dreamy sigh, finger-combing my corkscrew curls, wincing as I catch one filled with dirt and tangles, and enter the bathroom. I cross my fingers that no one will ring me before I’ve had a chance to get rid of the last bits of mud and sweat covering my body, and I turn on the shower.

A girl can dream, but not for long. I know full well that the real world always comes knocking when you least expect it. Sometimes, it feels like there’s a permanent group of grey clouds hanging above my head, waiting for me to reach a small sliver of peace of mind before they swoop down on me with lightning and a downpour, only to wreak havoc on my life and mental well-being. Tonight is most likely no different.

I know I must make the most of it before fate decides to play with me again.

The shower does me good, and after I’ve heated up an easy meal from the small, local supermarket, I feel much better. I usually eat in my comfy kitchen by the nook next to the window facing the gardens, and even though I know the dishwasher is the easy way, I wash the dishes by hand. The mundane task is soothing, and when you have a kitchen as welcoming and homey as this one, it’s not a hardship.

After I’ve finished, I head to my favourite room.

If there’s one thing that helps me feel less alone since I came here, it’s the well-stocked library on the third floor of the cottage. Whoever crafted the floor-to-ceiling bookcases and painted them a deep moss-green, with trellises and Gaelic words at the very top of them, must have been as madly in love with books as I am. The tiny lamps with their soft, delicate beams of light that shines down atop the books and the three enormous windows overlooking the rose garden beneath as the coastline at the far west beckons you to inhale deeply, shut the door on the outside world, and take a rest on one of the lush sofas stacked with pillows.

I walk to the bookshelf farthest away from the entrance and stop in front of the yellow section, as I like to call it because the books on this shelf are golden, orange, and yellow. All the books are colour-coded, my favourite way of cataloguing them, and some have been turned so that the pages are visible to the spectator instead of the spines, showcasing the most beautiful sprayed edges I’ve ever seen. Some display illustrations of animals, others hold quotes from the books, and even though it’s hard to choose a favourite, my heart leans towards the pages with intricate designs. There’s one title in particular that’s illustrated in a design that immediately turns my mind to Scottish kilts with the squares in different colours.

I’m in bookworm heaven, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

I raise my right hand, my fingers trailing lightly across the books in front of me, digging my bare feet and toes into the rich carpet covering the hardwood floors. I’m not in the mood to read anything too heavy or serious tonight, so when my eyes fall on a light-hearted book title, I gently pull it down from the shelf and turn around to the sofa behind me to settle in for a couple of hours. Even if my phone rings, and the operator at the station tells me I need to head out, I’m hoping there’s enough time to get to know the characters for a bit. I pull my knees up, but the twinge in my abdomen makes me wince, and quickly, my legs give out; my rest will have to be cross-legged instead. Glad to be in my comfy yoga tights and a hoodie, I take a moment to appreciate the colourful illustrated cover of a beautiful, slender woman in a pinkish dress, and a pale guy smiling down at her, his right arm resting against a tree. I squint at what appears to be fangs next to pearly-white teeth. I’m not really into reading books about vampires, shape shifters, and monsters in the dark, but since coming to Cloonmara has been as much about a change of scenery as a fresh start for me, it can’t hurt to delve into new genres to read.

“Right, here we go,” I murmur. “Dazzle me, dear vampire.”

I’ve barely turned the book in my lap when my phone rings, and I close my eyes briefly.

So close.

I can’t let it go to voicemail, so I snap the book shut and answer on the third ring. “Detective Sergeant Maeve Gallagher.”

“Sorry, DS Gallagher.” The young man on the other end is unfamiliar to me. “You’re needed for a disturbance down at the church.”

I blink in confusion. “A disturbance at the church?”

“Yes. From the sounds of it, the vicar and his brother got into a fight, and it’s getting rowdier. I’ve sent one of the Gardaí to your house. She’ll be at Rose Hill soon.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Quickly, I end the conversation, slam the book down on the sofa, and walk briskly to my bedroom to change into a pair of jeans. The hoodie and my leather jacket will have to do for tonight, and once I’ve buttoned the last button, I leave the bedroom. I round the corner, careful not to ram my hip against the large wooden globe atop the staircase before I run down. My mind in full work mode now, I grab the keys and my ID card from the big bowl on the kitchen counter and hurry to pull on my well-worn black boots. At the sound of knocking on my front door, I grab my jacket from the hook near the entrance. I tug it on and roughly put my ID in my back pocket. My mind already half on the village church, I set the alarm system and open the door.

The young Garda in front of me barely has time to open her mouth before I pass her with a sharp nod. “Let’s go.”

I hear her footsteps fall in behind me.

“Ma’am.”

I toss back a polite smile in her direction. “Please don’t call me Ma’am. Makes me feel like a frump.”

“Oh, sorry, Ma’am.” She claps her hand over her mouth, the shock in her eyes evident.

I laugh lightly, used to it. “It’s okay. What’s your name?”